


Maybe Inexhaustible

by ReachForTheStars



Category: Fallen London | Echo Bazaar, Sunless Sea
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-08-21
Updated: 2019-08-21
Packaged: 2020-10-01 16:48:31
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,435
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20340838
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ReachForTheStars/pseuds/ReachForTheStars
Summary: She's infuriating. She's charming. She's a bungler. She's beautiful. She can never be trusted. No one else can be trusted with the engine.





	Maybe Inexhaustible

During the nights within the endless night, he keeps watch. He stands at the lookout post mounted atop the cabin, staring out into the dark Underzee. Minutes pass while his eyes adjust, until he can see the glint of false-stars on the all-too-mirror-like surface of the zee, or else watch them flash and shift like a glittering carpet as swells pass languidly. Terror rises in him sometimes, not of the zee, but of the reflection. So many mirrors, so many reflections: so many gateways, _everywhere_, to those who would punish his betrayal. When the fear comes, he shifts his gaze into the brilliant beam of the prow lamp (when his penny-pinching captain hasn't shut it off), trying to see as far ahead as possible, longing for land and solid, black, light-devouring rock. When this becomes stupifying, he rises, pacing back and forth for the few steps space will allow; other times, he invents businesslike reasons to carry on shouted conversations with the crew on deck; others still, he sings or recites old poems and speeches. He cannot, must not, sleep.

  
During the mornings, such as they are, his fears and fatigue seem to vanish. He usually takes his draught just before six o'clock, after the long night has drained him. Even with it, that dull, aching, confused irritability of an unrested man never quite goes away, and his eye bags only seem to grow. But steady work on a battered engine of Theseus (i.e., one he could swear he has had to replace every part of at least once) in a hot engine room gives him more than enough to occupy his mind and force him awake by sheer anxiety. Valve starting to stick, oil can, no oil in the oil can, find oil, fill can, fuel running low, get another barrel, put it ready to hand...what was to be done...spot of rust there, on the housing, find polish before forgetting, gather polish and rag, valve he had forgotten starts to screech on each closing, drop polish and rag and find the oil can again...and so forth. He imagines that he must run three or four times the distance that the ship actually travels over the course of a voyage, and wonders whether this engine or his enforced sleepnessless is responsible for the failures of his naturally systematic mind.

  
The afternoon and evening is the quiet time, when the captain takes over in the engine room and he can relax, barring a not-infrequent crisis. He could of course have sixteen hours a day of leisure, but eight is more than enough to be alone with his thoughts, and double pay is nothing to sneeze at. He eats two full meals, gossips meaninglessly with the men, gambles when he has money he doesn't mind losing, plays chess with more enthusiasm than patience, and avoids the incisive red-haired surgeon and her probing questions about his condition.

  
So it goes, until the ship steams slowly into the Mangrove College for the third time, the captain wary of the shifting siltbars (is that a word? No matter), and he finishes his mostly futile efforts to secure the ship against the insects and larger creatures that seem to find their way aboard every time one stops here. Insects fly around him the moment he steps out on deck, and he slaps at those seeking his blood with uncharacteristic clumsiness. "B----r off," he mutters.

  
He is distracted from the pests by the half-rotten, uneven dock, which creaks and groans with every step, however careful. Grumbling about the dock and watching where his feet come down, he proceeds gingerly almost onto not-especially-dry land. Two steps from the end of the dock, a splotch of unusual colors at the edge of his vision; he looks up sharply, trips on a warped board, and lands with both hands in the muck. He grumbles a moment, then simply decides there's no point to that, gets up, and wipes his hands with a pocket handkerchief. And then he sees her for the first time.

  
Her face is wide yet beautiful, framed by long dark blonde hair and sharp eyebrows. A vaguely floral tattoo traces down her cheek. Her eyes are the color of a clear Surface sky, and her skin and lips' Neathy paleness is overshadowed by her dimpled, pearl-white smile. Anyone with a smile that open and honest, he thought, must be hiding something.

  
"Ah, my tireless mechanic!" the captain says as he slowly walks up to them, moth to flame. "Good news: we've a new engineer. Should take some burden off us, eh?"  
"Sorry? Oh, a new engineer? Who - captain?"  
"Why, her. I just hired her. Show her the engine room, eh? I've business at the college."  
"She's a - I mean - that is, just so? I approve of efficiency, but this is, well, hasty?"  
The captain mutters something and turns back, speaking close and low. "She seems to need to leave in a hurry. Not sure why, but she'll work cheap and that's good enough for me. If she's trouble we can dump her in London. Or overboard. Oh, and if anyone asks about her, say nothing."  
"Understood sir," he says, back in control of the situation, which lasts for only the few seconds until he turns to her and his brain doesn't seem to wish to function properly.  
"Well, pleased to get acquainted, I'm the current mechneer. Beg your pardon, _engineer_, people _call me_ the Tireless _Mechanic_, afraid I can't tell you my real name, that is, won't, as I have, ah, enemies. No offense meant or intended, impugning your character that is, it's just a matter -"  
"Do you generally speak this tediously?"  
"Oh - certainly not. I speak this quickly but much more directly. Not certain why I'm having difficulty now." He actually does have a good idea, or several, most involving that flowing blonde hair and those eyes and that tattoo of otherworldly beauty, but he's learned better than to make his feelings known. "In any event, I'm to get you aboard. What experience have you with engines?"  
She considers the question, tilting her head right, then slowly back left. "My past work has been, in the main, with Cotterell models."  
"Royal Navy?" It was obvious she hadn't been, but better she think him less perceptive.  
"You know quite well not," she answers. _Touche_. "And I would also rather leave questions about myself unanswered. It's more fun that way. But you can call me...Maybe. No, wait, that's my mother. Maybe's Daughter, then."  
"Well, I'd think that _maybe_ leaving said questions unanswered is less dangerous, for you as well?"  
"Come, come, that's not how the game is played. I don't just give you the answers. You have to work for them."  
"Intriguing, but hardly conducive to camaraderie. Never mind. Well, we don't have a Cotterell model. We have...this."  
"A Steeple!" she exclaims. "I remember those from when I was a girl! I hadn't the slightest idea they were still in use." Then she frowns. "This ship must be awfully slow."  
"Well, we may not be able to outrun whatever might be chasing us - or you in particular - but we can generally hide. This ship's small, and I arranged for paint to blend into darkness. Can be a problem coming into port, but that's purpose of running lights."  
She smiles. "I prefer hiding to running as well, given the choice. It's more ladylike." She pauses. "And then, of course, you can wait for the perfect moment to strike back at your adversary and destroy him."  
Without another word, she pulls up her hair, wraps a band around it, clambers down the ladder (more like a steep set of stairs, but that was the nautical term), and flings herself under the engine. He follows, more slowly. This would be interesting.  
"Well, this is wrong," she says. "You're running the burner too lean. Did you really manage to come all the way from London with the engine like this?"  
"I am_ not_ running the burner too lean," he lets himself rise to the bait. "The valves are positioned to best economize fuel. If more's put in at once, more combustion becomes incomplete: wastes it."  
"Traveling this slowly is more wasteful," she says, pulling her head out. "The prow lamp burns more fuel, the crew eats more supplies...and more of the little time we have before Hell or the Tomb-Colonies await slips away."  
"Ship can go awhile without rations, but depletion of fuel out here is effectively death sentence," he begins his rebuttal. Yes, this would be very interesting.


End file.
